The Hoo Peninsula lies between the River Medway and the Thames Estuary — a low stretch of land shaped by marsh, tide, and time. Here, the villages of Hoo St Werburgh, High Halstow, and Allhallows sit among fields that flood and drain with the slow breath of the sea. Roman tracks vanish into the mist; medieval churches lean into the wind; disused wharves and crumbling walls lie half-buried by silt and salt.
It is a landscape shaped by centuries of labor — farming, fishing, brick-making — yet it has never been fully claimed. Locals say the land keeps its own counsel. They tell of fields that shift their paths after dark, of singing tides, and lights that drift across the marshes like living things.
Some speak more cautiously of the Hollow-Men, who walk when the mist rolls in, stitched from reed and shadow. Of the Salt-Wives, who rise from the tide-pools to reclaim what was once theirs. Of the Lantern Folk, swinging false lights through the fog to guide the unwary from the path.
The old pacts are not easily broken, they say, and the Hoo remembers its bargains.
New roads cut across the fields; new houses grow where orchards once stood. But the land beneath remains older than maps, older than memory — and those who listen carefully can still hear it breathing.
Faylinn Defence Group 